


assorted works and the likes

by Anonymous



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, Other: See Story Notes, Sexual Content, Ships to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "It doesn't inspire joy in me anymore," you shrug. "y'all boring."or; i'm posting a bunch of unfinished wips, because my motivation and attention span for things is incredibly small.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 135
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	1. love spell — satan x reader

**Author's Note:**

> so. i'm cleaning my wip/drafts folder because i don't want to work on any of those stories anymore (sometimes i just can't see how to drive the story forward, and other times i just hate the way i wrote them), and i thought it'd be a waste to just delete these stories... so um. here. i don't know if anyone's interested, but yeah. i'll add a summary with tags and the pairing, just because i _hate_ cluttering the actual tags that you see in works. 
> 
> these are UNFINISHED DRAFTS, meaning that i'm posting these as they are in my drafts. expect some of these to end up with unfinished sentences. i'll probably share these like every other day until i run out of wips or something idk. if you follow me on twitter you've probably seen me share some of these before idk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love spell_ , Diavolo had said. Even the thought of it seems ridiculously out of a fairy-tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T — Love Potion/Spell
> 
> i am so sorry lmao i really thought i'd finish this but uH.

As most things do in the House of Lamentation, the new shit-show of the week begins with the most innocuous item: cupcakes.

They’re sitting in the middle of the kitchen table when you and Satan walk in. With your last class of the day out of the way, Satan had texted you after his had ended and had asked to walk you back home—a habit that had developed between all of the brothers, and despite the fact that you no longer had to worry about your safety, the gesture remained sweet.

The two of you had been discussing one of the books Satan had lend you a while back, and naturally ended up gravitating towards the kitchen.

It was the most relaxed you had seen him in a while, chatting away excitedly about a scene that deeply moved him. It brought a smile to your face, so when he leaned on the table and his green eyes shifted their attention towards another thing, you couldn’t help but trail his gaze.

“Oh,” you move from the counter you had been leaning against. “Are those, cupcakes?”

“Hm,” Satan agrees. He makes no move to open the clear-lid when he sees you move towards them.

It’s not like they’re anything special, you’re just surprised to see that they’re still there—which means Beelzebub isn’t home—considering the fact. They’re in a small, clear box, four small cupcakes with pink icing on top. They look cute, small enough to be able to be eaten in one go.

You open the lid and can’t help the sound of awe that leaves your mouth. Satan chuckles.

“Really?”

“Shut up, they’re cute! Look at them.” You motion towards them, a bright smile on your face. “I wonder who these are for…”

“Whoever brought them clearly didn’t care if they left it out in the open like this.” You watch as he moves to pick one up, and you have half a mind to swat his hand. He doesn’t eat it but doesn’t let it go either.

“Don’t do that, it’s rude.”

“You’re acting like there’s going to be any if Beel decides to come home early.”

“Still…” you can’t help but feel a tiny bit guilty. There has to be a note or something around somewhere. You scan the surface of the table, and then notice that there’s something underneath the box. You carefully lift it up and find that there is a note indeed.

 _Huh_ , “It’s in Latin.”

Satan raises an eyebrow, “well go on then.”

You click your tongue, “seems rude to read what’s inside. There’s no name on the outside.” Or at least nothing that you can identify as a name.

It’s simply a piece of paper that’s been folded up, and you move to show him. You can see where the ink of the pen the person used to write seeps through the paper just the tiniest bit. The only word on the outside reads _mihi apertum._

“It’s not like you’ll be able to understand what it means anyways,” Satan shoots you a smirk at your irritated expression, “although your Latin pronunciation has gotten better, consider this as practice for your upcoming exam."

And well… when he puts it like that.

You unfold the paper, careful to not tear it or wrinkle it beyond necessary. The calligraphy is gorgeous, is the first thing that comes to mind. Out of the corner of your eye you see Satan take a small bite of the cupcake, and his eyebrows raise in surprise.

You roll your eyes, so much for that. “Don’t eat them all. Maybe it’s a love letter and the cupcakes are a gift.”

“Were.”

“Satan.” You admonish.

“That’s English, not Latin.” He retorts. To your dismay, you find that he’s on his way to picking up another cupcake.

You stick out your tongue at him but proceed to read the letter out loud. You’re aware of the way Satan’s attention is fully on you, and a part of you is pleased because yes, your pronunciation has come a long way from the first month you arrived in the Devildom.

_“Nunc demum istaec nata non corde, intus cavae et vacua, et contentiones sint cogitationes tuae—“_

Satan whistles, take another cupcake and pops it in his mouth, “—that doesn’t sound like a love letter—”

_“—sus 'tempus cogitare de te ad aliquis aliud quam ipsum—“_

“—MC wait—”

_“—cor pulsu vestra quia quod non est consecutus sit causa tuae mortis.”_

You’re so concentrated on the word “mortis” that it takes you a second to realize that Satan is panting in front of you, one hand clutched to his chest and his head bowed.

There’s something like a hiss and a crackle in the air before the letter in your hand sends something like electricity up your arm and directly to your chest. It knocks the air out of you, and then your legs give up underneath you.

You hear Satan curse, distantly. Your body feels cold and hot at the same time, and there’s something pounding your chest, your heart feels like it’s about to give out and then there are hands trying to pull you up.

You open your eyes—when had you closed them?—to find Satan’s worried face too close to you. There’s something pained in his expression that you can’t quite figure out, trying to keep your gaze focused on him is proving to be too difficult.

He calls your name once, twice. On the third time you feel his hands cup your chin, keeping your head raised. “MC, keep your eyes open. Please.”

There’s something close to panic in his voice, and you can’t help the giggle that bursts through your lips.

Funny how he had been looking just how you’re feeling right now and yet he’s the one comforting you.

“Fuck,” you whine, your body feels so heavy. Tired. “Are you okay?”

Satan looks, angry—if it’s at yourself or himself, you’re not sure, but there’s a lick of fear at the back of your mind that tells you, hey maybe you should shut the fuck up. “You’re ridiculous. Worrying about me.”

You want to retort; _well you look like shit too_. But you keep your mouth shut, even the thought of speaking is making you exhausted. Satan feels warm, and you can’t help but lean in towards him.

You mutter something, don’t really know what. But you’re not complaining, even if the sound of Satan replying back seems even more panicked. You close your eyes and let out a content hum when you feel him pick you up—one arm under your back and legs, effectively carrying you bridal-style.

You’re so out of it that you don’t realize Satan almost trips with you in his arms. You don’t notice the way he struggles to get past the kitchen table. You’re too busy trying to fight off the headache in your head, trying to steal all the warmth his body provides.

A single thought comes to mind then, _ha! I can’t even hear his heartbeat_. Demons are so funny.

Next thing you know you’re waking up to voices speaking over you. At first they’re nothing more than gibberish, but then they grow louder and clear. You’re able to pinpoint Satan’s voice, and can’t help the burst of irritation that washes over you.

 _Too loud_ , you sit up from where you were laying down on your side. One hand coming to cradle your head. The—very one-sided, might you add—conversation continues.

“Ah, MC is awake.” Barbato’s soothing voice says right next to you, and you turn to look at his side. He gives you a soft smile, standing next to the couch you’ve been deposited in.

The conversation between Satan, and whom you can only imagine is Diavolo, halts. You’re very aware that you’re no longer in the House of Lamentation, you’re just trying to figure out why that is.

“MC,” your name from Satan’s voice sounds relieved. Your gaze shifts from Barbatos towards your front, where Diavolo and Satan stand. Diavolo’s eyebrows are furrowed, while Satan looks—

He looks like a mess. His blonde hair is unkempt, looking almost like he’s been pulling at it. There’s an aura of nervousness around his persona, and its enough to snap you out of your stupor.

He takes a step forward, and then hesitates. “Are you okay?”

And isn’t that a weird question? “I… yes?”

His lips purse, discontent. Okay, not the answer he was looking for.

You rub the back of your neck, “Um, I feel fine. Just a little confused,”

His expression softens, and his shoulders droop a little. Well fuck, maybe you should not mention how tired you are then.

“Do you remember how you came to be here?” Diavolo is the one to get closer to you, stepping towards the couch until he’s in front of you. He has the decency to notice how it hurts your neck to look up because he then crouches so that he’s looking at you.

You try very hard to not flounder under his gaze—it’s not every day you have a powerful prince get down to your level to speak to you. The confusion must be very evident on your face, because Satan then steps forward as well.

“I already told you, they passed out.”

Your eyes widen, not sure if it’s because of the tone of disrespect coming from Satan directed at Diavolo, or the fact that you apparently passed out and have no recollection of the event.

Diavolo nods, “Yes, but I’d like to assess just how bad the situation is.” He gives you a soft smile, patient.

You let out a tiny sigh, “I don’t… we were in the kitchen and there were some cupcakes.” Slowly, you can feel the events of earlier coming back to you. “The letter!”

Diavolo doesn’t pry for more information, he stands up and simple runs both hands down his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles. He shares a look with Barbatos before saying; “As I thought. A love spell.”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches out for far too long. Once you realize he’s not going to further explain, you can’t help but speak.

“You’re not playing, right?”

He frowns, “No. I’m serious, although it is a little bit too early in the year to be seeing those around.”

Your face must show something, because Barbatos pipes up;

“My lord is right,” Barbatos fixes his gaze on you, “in the human world the event is called Valentine’s Day, we have something like it here in the Devildom.”

Diavolo waves his hand in the air, “Of course ours is a whole week and not a single day.”

Satan is oddly quiet through all of this. You chance a look at him, he looks deep in thought. So much for the idea of getting some help from him.

“That’s not—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “Okay. I’m just going to skip the part where I ask what a love spell even is, because _this_ is not surprising.” Just upsetting, really, if the implications of what it means is anything to go by from what you’ve read in romance novels before. “How do we undo it?”

Satan let’s out a heavy sigh and crosses his arms, the look he shoots Diavolo let’s you already know that he’s been asking the same thing already.

“Why, by finding the witch who cast it in the first place of course.”

“We don’t know who it is.” Because it’s starting to become alarmingly clear that things just need to be needlessly complicated around here.

“That would be a problem,” Barbatos comments and even has the nerve to look troubled. For some reason you can’t help but feel like his reaction feels fake, you eye him and Diavolo.

Fuckers are probably having the time of their lives right now. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Our biggest concern should be the effects,” Satan finally pipes in to comment.

“Effects?” You feel like asking is going to be the biggest mistake you’ve made in the whole day so far, “what do you mean effects?”

Satan’s eyes slide to yours, and there’s a flicker of hesitation in them. “Well, aside from the obvious one…”

“The whole ‘falling in love thing’, right.” There’s something awfully bitter at the back of your throat. The thought of involuntarily falling in love with someone… You rub your arm.

“Right,” Satan echoes. “But then again, love spells differ in their effects. This could just be a temporary one, a week, maybe a month.”

“It’s not unheard of for these spells to last thousands of years,” Barbatos says.

“Okay, so ignoring that. Let’s just assume for the time being that this is temporary.” Because sometimes, just _sometimes_ it’s a little difficult to forget that they’re older than you and have probably seen this first-hand themselves. “Are we both going to be affected?”

Because you can recall the way that surge of energy had traveled from your hand, up your arm and directly to your chest—to your heart. Satan hadn’t looked too good before you dropped to the floor, so you’re a little bit worried about the implications of the whole thing.

At this, Satan actually looks relieved when he says; “No. You’re going to be fine. Whoever sent the letter and the cupcakes meant for the spell to only work on whoever ate the cupcakes—”

You can’t help but cringe, because Satan had eaten all four of them.

“—it wouldn’t have worked had you not recited the incantation.” And while he doesn’t sound like he’s blaming you, you can’t help but feel guilty. The stormy look on his face as he keeps contemplating his current dilemma is bordering on dangerous, you’re aware of the shouting from earlier.

“So you’re going to fall in love with the person who created the spell?”

Satan nods, and oddly enough, you notice that he’s no longer looking at you.

“Then that’s fine! We don’t know who the witch is, so you should be fine!” You stand up from the couch and sway a little. Satan is fast on his feet and is instantly at your side, one hand on your waist steadying you. You beam at him, “you don’t have to worry about anyone stealing your heart.”

“MC…” Satan sighs, and there’s a blush dusting his cheeks. Out of the corner of your eye you see Barbatos struggle to hold in his laughter. “ _You_ casted the spell.”

A beat of silence. You can feel your face heat up when you realize what this means.

“Oh.”

Diavolo looks at the two of you and something like utter joy crosses his face. “Doesn’t seem like the spell is going to do anything on that regard.”

Which you and Satan completely ignore.

“But,” Satan begins and his grip on your waist tightens briefly before he let’s go of you. “It’s fine. The effects will only be felt by me, and love spells don’t tend to be lethal.”

There’s nothing comforting about the word ‘tend’ in that sentence. You scowl.

“As long as there is no pact between you two, MC should not be affected by anything.” Diavolo confirms, and it’s starting to get on your nerves just how casual they all sound about Satan’s lack of choice here.

You open your mouth to argue, but Satan shoots you a pleading look.

“Okay,” you relent. You take out your D.D.D from your pocket, relieved that it hadn’t fallen when Satan had carried you. The time reads 6:00 p.m., the two of you have time to make it back before the others come back.

“If you do manage to break the spell before the effects get too unbearable, I’ll be honestly surprised.” Diavolo gives you a pat in the back, and because you’re not expecting it you end up stumbling forward into Satan’s chest. Instinctively Satan’s arms wrap around you.

He doesn’t let go.

You have to wiggle a bit for him to ease up on the hug, and when you shoot him a curious look, you find him looking away. He takes another step away from you.

 _If_ , Diavolo had said. Something about the wording just doesn’t sit right with you, and upon chancing a glance at Satan you find that his expression mimics what you’re feeling.

Diavolo’s amused look turns softer at your face, and his attempt at trying to comfort you does anything but. “Don’t worry about it, worse scenario happens and you’re not able to lift the spell, its not like Satan would be suffering.”

Barbatos to his side, offers you a small smile. “Human life-spans are not particularly long compared to a demon’s.”

And ouch. Sure, just rub it in why don’t they?

That seems to be the wrong thing to say, because Satan's complete posture changes. His voice is cold when he says; "Enough. MC, would you mind waiting outside?"

And it's not like you're particularly keen on staying inside any longer.

You shoot him another look before stepping outside the room and making your way outside the mansion. It takes Satan an extra ten minutes to finally walk outside, and when he does he doesn't even stop to say anything. He walks forward and you follow after him.

_Love spell,_ Diavolo had said. Even the thought of it seems ridiculously out of a fairy-tale.

When you mention it to Satan after the two of you leave, trying to provoke a laugh out of him, he doesn’t even look your way. It’s a stark difference to the aloofness he had on just an hour prior.

You clutch your bag closer to you, a sigh worming past your lips.

Ideally, this wasn’t how you wanted to spend your summer vacation, and you’re pretty sure this wasn’t how Satan wanted to spend his.

“I’m sorry.”

He actually stops now, and there’s confusion on his face when he regards you. “What for?”

You open up your mouth to reply but find no words coming forward.

He’s right. What _are_ you trying to apologize for? It’s not like you were the one to create the love potion, and while you did technically read the incantation, it’s not like you knew what it’d do.

It just seemed like an over-dramatic love-letter addressed to someone in the house.

You shake your head, “still… I should take some sort of responsibility. We wouldn’t be here in this situation if it weren’t for me reading the note.”

“MC,” the way he says your name is soft, and the admiration you find in his gaze is not anything new and yet—your heart skips a beat. Satan steps in front of you and tugs your hand away from the strap of your bag, holds it in his. “I appreciate it, really, but don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way to undo the spell.”

You want to believe him, you really do, but Diavolo’s words keep replaying over and over in your head. Because if the prince of Hell himself said that there wasn’t any way to get the spell undone unless the witch responsible isn’t found, then how will he do it?

It’s not like she left an address to contact her, and who knows how many witches there are in existence in the Devildom, let alone the human world.

“Hey,” Satan squeezes your hands, his brows furrowed. “You trust me right?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in your reply, and the way his emerald eyes glitter after your answer manages to disperse any lingering doubt.

“Good,” he smiles, pleased. A beat of a moment passes between the two of you before he remembers something, the look on his face is serious. “Let’s keep this between the two of us.”

You nod, “but what about Lord Diavolo and Barbatos?”

Satan shakes his head, “I’ve already spoken to them.”

Ah, so that explains why he took longer to step outside.

Satan doesn’t let go of your hand as the two of you walk back towards the house. It helps ease the worry inside of you just enough that you don’t think about it for the rest of the day.

 _He looks fine._ You tell yourself.

Maybe there truly isn’t anything to worry about.

He looks fine.


	2. comfort — asmodeus x reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because what does it say about a demon respecting your decision, the same species that’s supposedly to be the one you should fear, the one you shouldn’t trust and—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T — Past Sexual Assault, Anxiety Attacks

Asmodeus' grin wavers just slightly as his hand stretches out to grab onto your wrist. It completely vanishes when you flinch back away from him. "You're crying."

"Oh," the laugh that bubbles out of your throat gets interrupted by another sob. You bring a hand to your face to find that _huh_ , you are crying.

You take another step back, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat and grows impossibly louder in your ears. Asmodeus is staring at you like he can’t quite understand what’s wrong and well, that makes the two of you. Now if only he’d stop staring—

“It’s fine, ha, I’m sorry. I’m—” You wipe your eyes with your arm, ignoring the tremors raking your body. “I don’t know what came over me, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

It sounds weak, like an excuse not to him but rather like you’re trying to tell yourself that you _are_ fine.

“Love,” his voice is serious, none of the faux sweetness that laces his words when he’s trying to get something. The single word echoes in your head, taunting. You’re gonna be sick. “If someone hurt you—”

“Don’t.” You take a deep breath, Asmodeus purses his lips, a flash of something—discontent? Annoyance at being interrupted? —crossing his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

You’re expecting him to get mad, what’s with the way his eyes are boring into your body, looking at you. Asmodeus lets out a sigh through his nose and shifts his weight. “I apologize, I won’t do it again.”

And that there? It has you feeling all sorts of uncomfortable for reasons you don’t really want to get into.

(Because what does it say about a demon respecting your decision, the same species that’s supposedly to be the one you should fear, the one you shouldn’t trust and—)

The two of you stand in the hallway for what seems like forever. Asmodeus says nothing as you try to even out your breath, face feeling hot from embarrassment. Now that you’re here, you can’t help but feel a little bit silly—he’s bound to ask questions if he hasn’t left yet, and what are you supposed to tell him? Oh, you know I freaked out because Mammon, Beel and I where cuddling, business as usual.

The situation is mortifying, and you can’t help but think you’ve royally messed up now. There’s an ugly voice wrapping it’s way around your brain, clouding your rational thoughts sounding awfully like well, now you’ve gone and done it! Damaged goods, you’ve only been here for a month and clearly can’t get your shit together. 

Just like that any semblance of peace shatters and you feel your chest beginning to tighten. Your vision begins to grow uneven and all you can think is I need to move away from here. The small rational part of your mind kicking your self-preservation into gear. A single thought comes into mind then, Lucifer can’t know.

Because if Lucifer knows, then Diavolo knows, and it’s one thing having a frightened human getting used to the whole concept of Hell and Heaven being actual things—that, that can be overcome. But having someone that’s bound to be an emotional mess unpredictably and on top of that forced into this situation?

You would never say it aloud, but you like it here. You’ve liked the relationships you’ve developed in the last month, and you like whatever it is you have going on with Mammon and Beelzebub and you’d missed them—

Asmodeus calls your name, and before you can react, he’s right in front of you. You’re very aware of the tight grip he has on your wrist, of the way you manage to struggle for less than a second before he forces you to look up at his face when he grabs your chin with his hand.

Your body slacks then, and you can’t help but not be able to look away from his eyes. His voice is melodic, calming and sweet all at the same time. “How about we go somewhere more private, hm?”

You manage to catch a flicker of regret in his eyes before the world goes to a single focus point and you can’t help but think, sure I’ll follow you, why wouldn't I?

You let him guide you into his room. 

There’s silk sheets under your body, and the smell of roses are the first thing that register in your mind. You sit up slowly, the echoes of a headache beginning to make themselves announced. Right in front of you Asmodeus is painting his nails.

There’s a brief thought of _how did I get here_ , followed by the fact that you _do_ know how you got here.

Asmodeus hasn’t looked up from painting his nails, but even then you know he knows you’re awake. He’s giving you time to talk, you realize, and the sentiment is sweet. You take a deep breath.

“Please don’t tell Lucifer,” You lick your lips, and when he raises his eyes to look at you with a hum, you find the energy to continue. “What happened today—”

“Will probably happen again,” He interrupts you, closes the nail polish bottle and moves it to the side. “Dear, if Mammon did something to you—”

A flicker of irritation squeezes your heart, “he didn’t do anything.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Asmodeus scoffs and his mouth opens up in what you can already tell is just straight up trash-talk about his brother, he hesitates though when he sees the look on your face and instead averts his eyes. Picture perfect of an ashamed person.


	3. affirmation — lucifer x reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want me here?" and _there_. You might be both hard-headed, but even you know when to draw the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T — N/A
> 
> this was supposed to be a oneshot set during the bunny event, hence why MC mentions the ears,,,, it was supposed to be about how mc is upset that this is the most open they've seen lucifer be and they're lowkey annoyed it has to happen because lucifer has bunny ears and they react to his emotions.

With Lucifer, you've learned that it's easier to bare yourself naked to him—figuratively, not literally. It leaves no room for misunderstandings, saves you a headache when he's coiled tight with tension and his words blur between mocking and genuine curiosity, something you're working at figuring out bit by bit. So you cup your hands on either side of his face and look him straight in the eyes when you ask; "I would like to steal some of your time."

He considers your words for a second before the tiniest hint of a smile shows up on his face, and something gives in the way he looks at you—goes softer. "Are you asking, or demanding?" His gloved hands comes up to wrap around your wrist, where his pact mark coils around your wrist and _sings_ under his touch.

Your breath comes out shaky, and fuck. Now you're a little bit annoyed, he does this ... the thing where he pokes at your vulnerability. He doesn't do it out of malice, and your growing nervousness might just be because you've never been good at the being open thing, the talking thing. The feelings thing.

Those.

But then Lucifer is not any better, though his come from pride and stubbornness, whereas yours comes from a lack of trust for others. Hidden behind walls that you've carefully constructed one heartbreak after the other, walls that Lucifer has stubbornly been trying to pick away at – the methods in which he does trivial to him, much to your ever chagrin. He's persistent, and not unlike any other time the two of you can find some alone time, you're reminded of the night the two of you sealed the pact.

Lucifer takes, and he's not shy nor repentant about it. You just wished he'd give you more chances to reciprocate, without asking anything of you back.

You lick your lips, aware of the way his eyelashes lower and his eyes track the movement. "Asking," you say slowly. Swiping your thumb along his cheekbones. "It'd be hardly fair for you to give in to my requests if you're being forced."

"And if I decline?" He asks, amusement dripping from every word. "You wouldn't be the first one asking for my time, and you also wouldn't be the first person I turn down."

"Then I leave, and you can go back to sleeping."

"You sound displeased." He raises a single eyebrow, "I didn't give you an answer, MC."

You shake your head. "It's not ..." You sigh. " It's not about the answer, I don't care about that." You pause, and then amend; "I mean, I would be upset if you sent me away. But just because I feel like spending time with you doesn't mean I'm entitled to your time either."

"You're allowed to be selfish, MC." His thumb presses along a vein on your wrist. " No one will judge you."

"It's not about being judged."

"You do things half-way." Lucifer points out, a lack of care for tact as he judges you. It's not a new conversation. " It's frustrating."

" _I'm_ the frustrating one?" You drops your hands from his face, Lucifer doesn't let go of your wrist. "That's golden coming from you."

Lucifer doesn't roll his eyes, but he comes close to it. You see his leg bounce, once, twice. When he catches you staring at it, he stops abruptly. When you focus back on his face, you notice that he's leaned further back on the chair. He doesn't look upset with you, nor annoyed, but it's definitely not the soft look he was giving you earlier. "MC, what do you want?"

"I already told you."

"So why are you arguing with me."

You inhale, clench your jaw. "Because you're being difficult, Lucifer." Before he can get another word in, you raise a finger, not done with your thoughts. "You like to walk around circles. You always do this, and it's honestly exhausting. It feels like I have to _force_ the answers out of you and it's... it's—"

You let out an irritate huff, your face feels warm and you know there's unshed tears beginning to pool along your waterline. You keep your eyes careful trained to the side, unable to look at Lucifer. You rub your mouth with your free hand, and close your eyes. "I'm sorry," you say, "I didn't come here to... I just. Dinner. Are you coming or not?"

Lucifer tugs you softly towards him, rising from the chair he's been sitting down at. You take a deep breath, leaning further towards him when you feel him cup the side of your face. You feel a single tear run down your cheek, Lucifer wiping it away with the pad of his thumb. The glove he's wearing is soft against your skin, but a part of you longs for the touch of his hands bare.

When you open your eyes, Lucifer tilts your head up, and you look back at him. There's some assessing in his gaze, and bordering on apologetic. The two of you remain staring at each other like that for what seems like an eternity, even though realistically you know it can't be more than eight seconds.

You open your mouth instinctively in order to protest, just in case he wanted to ignore your question again—you know the others are still waiting on you to return—but Lucifer surprises you by bringing the hand he has in possession, and bringing it up to his lips. He places a single kiss on your knuckles. 

Lucifer sniffs. " While the prospect of having dinner with all of you sounds alluring," his voice says the opposite of that but you don't call him out on it,"Diavolo did not extend the invitation."

You open your mouth to refute his words, but then you stop. Because, that there? That's not the face of someone that's bitter or disappointed, that's the face of a man that's delighted at the prospect.

Lucifer doesn't offer anything more, so you don't either. Instead, you mull over his expression and then his words.

He's right. No matter how much you try to recall, Diavolo had not in fact extended the invitation to Lucifer. Lucifer hadn't even been present when Diavolo had individually invited all of you to  
dinner to celebrate the event's success. Try as you might, you can't help the bout of respect that surges through you at the prince. So you weren't the only one that noticed Lucifer's mood, even behind that charming smile of his.

Although a part of you feels like the only reason you could tell where his ears. You glance at them, and _huh._

You hadn't noticed. Possibly because they looked the same, flopping down Lucifer's face, but there's something different to them now—something you had caught Beel's ears doing when he had been eating earlier in the day – and that's they're overlapping in the back, touching just barely. But still touching.

You can't believe it took you this long to notice. Fuck.

"Do you want me here?" And there. You might be both hard headed, but even you know when you have to draw the line. You're starting to get annoyed and you hate the way it makes your skin tingle, your palms sweat. " Because I want to spend time with you, but not if you don't want me here."

You pry your eyes away from his head, from his bunny ears. But now that you've noticed it you can't help the anxious thoughts running through your head—had you disrupted his alone time? his ears hadn't been like that earlier today, but you can't remember if they had been when you walked in, or if they had


	4. touch — mammon x reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's easier, I guess." You card your fingers through his hair, once, twice. "I like complimenting you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T — Insecurity, Mentioned Past Sexual Assault (brief).

"I like," a kiss further down your wrist, Mammon's lips barely brushing against the skin there, his breath is warm when he speaks again. "I like it when you get all... pliant."

You raise an eyebrow, your lips tugging on the corner upwards in clear mocking. It works enough to annoy Mammon, and the grip on your wrist tightens, his cerulean eyes flickering to the side. This, you can work with this, makes it easier to ignore the way your heart is thumping loudly against your rib-cage. As long as you're able to redirect his attention back to himself, it works. "Pliant?"

"Sh-shut up." He grumbles, and brings your arm closer to his face, almost a nuzzle. "It's just... you get really soft, 'n it's easy to get you to agree to things."

You hum.

"N-not that 'm saying I ain't like a challenge," Mammon backtracks quickly, pulling his face away from your arm. His fingers flex on your wrist, and then they soften. "I wouldn't be The Great Mammon if I couldn't get my human's attention, even when they're being distracted by the other fuckers."

You roll your eyes, "Your brothers," you correct.

"I said that." He scoffs. It's so childish, honestly—they all are. 

"Sure," you say, because this isn't a new topic and you know how needy Mammon gets when he can't get your attention fast enough. It took some getting used to at first, never being one to like being the center of attention, and even now, stuck in this unusual dynamic with the brothers that not a single one of you has dared to put a name to—you're not really that used to the compliments, makes you feel fidgety, uncomfortable. 

You guess it was only a matter of time before they all noticed. You just hadn't expected Mammon to be the one to bring it up—Asmodeus? Sure. Maybe Satan or Belphegor. 

"But," Mammon swallows, clearly intent on continuing the conversation, "it's different—when I don't have to fight for it... your attention, and you just—you come to my side. Because you like it here," His eyes bore into you with too many emotions to name, but the intensity in his gaze leaves you breathless, much like Mammon's voice when he finishes his thoughts; "because you like me."

"I do like you," you give him a soft smile. "I have a list of things I like about you in fact," and _oh_ Mammon's skin takes this lovely color whenever you compliment him, he's too easy. "I could shower you in affection, if that's what you want."

"Stop that." Mammon says, closes his eyes. Sighs, and when he opens his eyes, you notice that there's something like resolve building up in them. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Deflectin'" at your confused expression, he explains; "Asmo said you do that a lot, when people compliment you. I thought it was bullshit--"

"--Because it is--"

"--but the bastard is fucking right."

You click your tongue. Your chest feel heavy. "I don't," but even to you it sounds like a pitiful excuse. "When have I ever turned down a compliment?"

"I never said you turn 'em down." Mammon clicks his tongue, "you just.. you try to change the topic."

A silence falls between the two of you, and you consider your options. You hadn't expected tonight to turn in this direction—after a week of not having some alone time, Mammon had finally had enough and decided to come sleep over. What had started as heavy making-out, ended up turning softer and more cuddly. 

"I think, I think that's why we work so well though." You say after a moment, "I don't want you to compliment me, Mammon."

Mammon's eyebrows furrow, and you can tell how displeased he is by the idea. "But _why_?"

"It's easier, I guess." You card your fingers through his hair, once, twice. "I like complimenting you." 

Mammon grins, and under your hand he looks very much like a puppy. It's cute, _he's_ cute. "Of course you like it, it's me after all."

"And you ruined it." You sigh, pinching his arm. Mammon jolts under you, and his tail instantly smacks you on the side. 

"I like it," you parrot back at him, hoping that he'll drop the subject, "when you call me your human."

"I thought you said you hated it," he says, but whatever ounce of dejection that could've come out is masked by the utter happiness that's displayed on his face. Mammon's tail wraps around your calf, and you're fifty percent positive it's because he doesn't want to show just how affected by your admission he is.

"I do," you say after a little bit of contemplation. You've never been the most eloquent, especially when it came to your feelings, and Mammon's confusion has you scrambling for an answer. "I mean, I don't really like it, all the time. It's just... when we're together, or you're holding my hand... I guess?"

"Ya guess?" He raises an eyebrow, "You're confusing."

You sigh, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. Mammon strains his head to try, and failing, to plant a kiss on your lips. "I know. I am, and I don't get it myself either."

"You know how you mentioned I get pliant, when you guys are heavy-handed with touching, and cuddling, and hugging?" 

He nods, "it almost feels like you're a whole different person."

You grimace, "my head gets fuzzy when people touch me for long periods of time, and it's like... I get so disconnected from everything." You frown, mulling your next few words, it's difficult talking about it, and it only comes to you now that this is the first time you've openly talked about this. "I can't concentrate, and everything just goes all muted and it's so peaceful. It's so much easier to agree with what you guys ask me to do."

Mammon's quiet for far longer than you expected him to, and when you open your eyes there's a conflicting look on his face. 

"What?"

"That's... I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, it's kinda concerning."

"I know," you whine. "That's why I don't like it when you guys are all over me, the feeling doesn't go away for a couple of days and it's really difficult to concentrate and I hate it so much."

"So then I'll tell the others to stop bothering ya," Mammon says, sounding and looking at you very much like you're some sort of treasure, his and his alone. Some days, that feeling makes your chest feel tight for reasons that have nothing to do with all of the love you have for him. "I'm your first anyways, and I actually listen to you when you don't want to do something."

You sigh through your nose. He has a point there. You lean forward until your forehead touches against his, eyes closed, you admit; "I'm... I'm getting used to it. Because I trust you guys, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't... I need the—" _control_ , is what you don't say. 

"That still doesn't explain why you don't like it when I compliment you,"

"Oh," you shrug, "that's just unresolved childhood trauma I guess?"


	5. conflict — lucifer x reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that pisses you off the most isn't the fact that you have no actual, real choice in the matter—its the fact that he's still asking you, as if you're going to say no because the gun pointed at your head is only there for decoration, obviously.
> 
> or; Lucifer is the right-hand man to one of the biggest mob bosses around, and you're the college drop-out-turned-drug-dealer that sold him iso dope. You know, like an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M — Mob AU, mention of drug dealing.

The thing that pisses you off the most isn't the fact that you have no actual, real choice in the matter—its the fact that he's still asking you, as if you're going to say no because the gun pointed at your head is only there for decoration, _obviously_.

You consider your options, careful to not lean away from the gun—even though your self-preservation is screaming at you to get out of the way. If only to see the look of annoyance on Lucifer's face as you begin to calm down, or at least look like you are on the outside. 

The thing is that _this_ shouldn't surprise you the way it does. You _knew_ what you would be potentially getting into if you pissed off the wrong crowd. You just hadn't expected Lucifer to be the one to threaten you. Two things suddenly become clear then.

First: there has to be something _incredibly_ wrong with you when a single thought that sounds awfully like _Lucifer looks absolutely sinful when pissed._ Which is then followed by _I wonder if this is what people last see before he ends them_ pop up in your mind. Because let's be real here, there's no allusion as to what's going to (potentially) happen if you decline his offer. 

Second: You have a very selective circle of people you sell drugs to, and Lucifer has never been a part of that circle— _hell_ you didn't even think he knew about your side-gig, or rather, he didn't care enough to pry. So why are you staring down the barrel of a gun for something you've never given to Lucifer. 

"I've never sold to you." Is what you end up settling for, a fact. "I told you—I don't mix business with pleasure."

Lucifer smiles then, and it's cold enough that you feel trepidation begin to coil down low in your gut. You're still going through your mental list of clients from the last three weeks but none of them seem to stand out. "An intelligent decision that not a lot of people in your _profession_ seem to follow." 

The way he emphasizes the word leaves you feeling sick, annoyed. You bare your teeth at him, take a step closer towards him. Surprisingly enough, Lucifer takes a step back so that the gun doesn't touch you and _huh_. That says a lot.

"You have no room to talk." You spit out, "Get the gun out of my face, Lucifer."

"Mammon," Lucifer says simply. It comes completely out of nowhere, enough so that you blink confused at him. "You're right. A transaction between the two of us outside pleasure never happened, you however sold fake meth to my brother."

_Brother_.

Shit.

_Fuck—_ now you remember. The asshole with the bleached white hair. You're not sure what your face must show, but it probably borders on horrified and then worried enough that Lucifer deigns it sufficient enough because he pulls the gun away, and even though his face remains in that constant displeased look of his. His eyes shine with an emotion that borders on _interest_ and something else you're not quite sure what to call.

"Oh my god," you say first, and then slightly more horrified, "I didn't know—you didn't tell me.... you have a brother?!" Shake your head because _no_ , that's not the priority here. Eyes wide, and genuinely concerned, you scan his face for a hint of something like hatred in his gaze. It's possibly the first time you've actually _cared_ about what happens to the people that buy drugs off of you. 

You don't go out of your way to sell the piss poor fakes that anyone can make in their own goddamn kitchen, there's a reason why you're able to afford rent and then some despite your lack of a steady job and student loans to pay off—you're _good_ at what you do, quite possibly the best around. Mammon coming in that morning after a night of drinking, and then being an asshole on top of that—you had thrown at him 

Lucifer's remained awfully quiet throughout it all, like he's waiting for you to calm down.

"Is he... is he okay?"

Lucifer blinks, and then _laughs_. Like you've made a fucking joke. Your blood boils and, gun forgotten, you step up to his space and hit him hard in the chest. He doesn't even have the decency to look hurt by it. 

"I'm serious!"

"He's okay, his pride is just wounded is all." 

"So why are you threatening me? If it's the money, I haven't spent it. You can have it back I don't need it." Which is a complete lie, but Lucifer doesn't need to know that. It's none of his business, giving the money back just means you're going to have to get in contact with all of your clients and let them know that you'll be able to sell to them again. There goes those three months of no working. 

"You made me look bad," the way Lucifer says your name makes a shiver run down your spine. "If there's one thing I detest is people making me look bad, especially in front of Diavolo."

_Diavolo._

As in kingpin _Diavolo ._ Everyone in the business knows of him, hell—you wouldn't be surprised if your ten year old niece knew of the guy. Rose to power fairly young, murdered his own father for the position at the top. Any illegal type of business being run in this area of the country is overseen by him. You've been contacted by some of his lackeys before, and that's the reason why you stopped selling to whoever came up to you looking for your products. As long as you kept your clientele relatively small, you posed no threat to his empire. 

It is, without sugarcoating it, one of the main reasons why you moved here specifically. Diavolo, unlike other mob bosses, was _nice_ like that. 

Suddenly, you feel like a complete idiot. Because it is no secret that Diavolo operates with a select group of men that you've come to known as the Avatars of Sin, and it becomes completely clear to you that Diavolo's right-hand man, _the_ Morning Star, is the man you've been fucking on and off for the last couple of months. The same man standing in front of you, _clearly_ enjoying seeing you come to your own conclusions right in front of him. 

"I knew you were in the drug business, I just didn't know how good you were at it. Imagine my surprise when Diavolo requested of me to buy from you, and when Mammon came back half of the meth you sold him was fake." Lucifer has a unique way to sound both amused and annoyed at the same time, it almost feels like he's mocking you. "You're a smart girl, you know this means you stole from Diavolo."

"Like I said," you begin again, not sure where he's going with this. You are not above begging, after-all. "I can give you the money back."

"Ah, but he doesn't want the money." Lucifer sounds exasperated suddenly, and you're not really sure why but it almost feels like it's directed at his boss rather than you. "You've piqued his interest, you see. As you may already be aware, it is incredibly easy to spot fake batches but _you_ , you've managed to make the dopes look extremely genuine." This last part he adds as an afterthought, possibly remembering what happened at the time of the revelation; "even Barbatos had trouble identifying the fakes."

"Right." You let out a nervous laugh, "How do I undo that."

Lucifer gives you a wry smile. "You let me put a bullet right through your skull."

Right. "And the other option where I _don't_ end up with a hole in my head?"

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, amusement in the way he looks at you. "

You eye him, and even though you already know your answer, you can't help but ask just to be annoying: "What do I get out of it?"

Lucifer's eyes shine, and when he cups your chin with his hand, tilting it upwards so that you're looking up at him and he's looking down at you, you make sure to not look away from his eyes. Approval flickers across his faze. "Everything your little heart desires."

You swallow, suddenly aware of the proximity between the two of you. The air is thick with tension, you lick your lips and begin to feel a nice flush run up your neck when Lucifer's eyes flicker towards your mouth, and remain there. "Sounds dangerous—you offering me anything that I would want."

"Temptation has always been my strong point," Lucifer runs his thumb across your bottom lip. "You're making it sound like it'd be an inconvenience for me."

_For me_ , he says. You want to correct him, say you'd be working for Diavolo, technically... but—"If I weren't, you would've gotten rid of me a long time ago."

Lucifer hums, and leans down to capture your lips on his. It's a chaste kiss, barely there and gone on your next breath. "Diavolo would not have approved of that. Like I've said, you've been on his radar for quite some time now. It'd be a waste to let such a skilled person slip from his grasp over something as petty as stolen money."

You raise an eyebrow, "And you?" 

"Hm?"

"Diavolo didn't tell you to get sexually involved with me." You suck in a breath, "what do _you_ gain out of, Lucifer? You come here making a big deal out of it, waving your gun around in _my_ apartment acting like I don't have a choice in the matter. But I do, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered with the explanations. You obviously 


	6. half of you — satan x reader x lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You count your blessings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E — Demon Courting
> 
> it was supposed to be a character study,,,, i don't wanna work on it anymore. oops.

"So you're really staying with us, then?" 

You've come to realize—in the measly week that you've spent in the Devildom—that no matter where you are, beings capable of rational thoughts are, at their core, nosy fuckers.

You really only have yourself to blame when you really think about it, but then you also like to give yourself some slack—after-all, you were kidnapped from the world you've known for all the time you've been alive and thrown into something straight out of a novel.

A very cheesy novel, with the main characters being unfairly attractive and sinful.

Ha, sinful. 

As it stands, nosy fucker. It's the thing that pops first into your mind when Solomon speaks, leaning against the door-frame to your bedroom as his grey eyes make a scan of your bedroom.

Like he's expecting to find boxes full of your belongings, something that cements the fact that yes, you will be staying at Purgatory Hall for the remainder of the school year. 

There's nothing, really. Just the couple of pajamas laid out on your—messy—bed that Lucifer had gifted you exactly seven days ago today. A couple of books on your night-stand, courtesy of Satan, that you can't really read because it's in whatever language they speak down here—and you have a feeling Satan knew what he was doing—and you just got here, still trying to figure out your way around things.

Like the fact that angels and demons are real.

Then, ridiculously enough, that everything here seems to either be a knockoff of a human-world product—Akuzon? Devilgram?—and you know, the little things. It's normal enough that if you don't really think too hard about it, you can go on pretending that you're not walking and breathing the same air as creatures that are—were—supposed to be fictional.

For a while, it works. 

It's actually easy to forget that you're living among demons, for all of their talk about being superior to you disguised in passing comments and, quite frankly, very ignorant comments about human-kind, the brothers prove to be quite fun to be around.

Doing their best to make you feel at home, even if it came at the expense of doing them a couple of favors. It takes Lucifer finding out about Leviathan's plan involving Mammon for him to quickly nip that at the bud—some passing comment about not making yourself easy to demons, whatever that means.

"Well, yeah." You shrug, not really knowing what to tell him.

You begin to put on the jacket to your uniform, silently cursing as you try to make it look semi-decent. The reflection staring back at you is not any different than what it was twenty-four hours ago, save for the ugly hand-shaped bruises that circle around your neck, like a fucked-up version of a choker.

Your eyes flicker from your reflection to Solomon's, who has taken your response as an invitation to step inside your bedroom. 

His uniform look very put together, and when you look at your own with all of the extra buttons and pins and the damned red cape on one shoulder, you can't help but feel a little jealous, and then annoyed. You consider, very briefly, to just say fuck it and forego the whole jacket and just show up with the teal shirt.

You've seen the way some of the students have walked around wearing their own uniforms—there doesn't seem to be a very strict dress-code, and given your current circumstances you have a feeling you can maybe get away with it.

"Why?" Solomon asks.

He's standing not too far away from you, and when you look back at him through the mirror, you see him eyeing the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table behind you. His fingers run along the flowers, examining them.

You're not sure what kind of flowers they are, but seeing Solomon touch them so freely at least makes you less bitter about their presence in the bedroom. You can now cross that off of your list of potential things that can kill you.

It'd be very hypocritical of you to get annoyed at his questioning. Why, he asks. Like he doesn't see the bruises around your neck, like he wasn't the one to piece you together piece by piece—made the bones and flesh knit back together. Dragged you from the coolness of the darkness that followed your death—back into the waking world, screaming in pain and agony.

He knows why.

Because it's been made absolutely clear that the exchange program, that Diavolo's little pet-project would not work if you stayed in the House of Lamentation.

Because Lucifer lied, and it was exactly this lie which prompted the line of events that built up in exactly one year before you were transported here, to form. 

Because you—nosy fucker number one—could not for the life of anyone, follow instructions.

When Lucifer told you to not walk up the staircase to the attic, that is exactly what you did. And like a fool, toppled the first domino that would make Lucifer's plan crumble into pieces, in the way of human blood under Belphegor's nails, in the way of your broken body thrown onto the ground in front of the others.

Later, much, much later—you would have Mammon knocking on your bedroom door. He would beg you to stay, say how this was his fault—and the sentiment, it would've been sweet. But you could see the marks and bruises on his body, the puffy eyes from crying—you only learn later in the year that he did, in fact, cry while he held your limp body in his arms—and it doesn't take too long to put two and two together.

You've only been here for a week, but these demons? They represent their sins, they wear it proudly on their wrists. Mammon might not have been Pride, but he didn't need to be—it wasn't the thought of a wounded pride that made you second-guess your feelings about the demon, it was the greed under his stare that made you decide. Mammon might've not endangered your life the same way Lucifer had, but there was no doubt in you that if anything were to happen to the two of you, the feeling of being a part of his collection of valuable items...

It didn't... it didn't sit well with you. You don't think you could live peacefully with yourself if at every little action, every single look of his made you question his true intentions. 

You're under no illusion that any feelings he managed to develop for you in a just week are mainly fueled by his sin, and maybe, in another timelines, you would be fine with that. With the thought that he considers you his. That the idea of you leaving his care means a lot of things.

Mammon's apology had fallen into deaf ears the minute he had said, rather forced, that he had fucked up. He had taken your silence for something that it was not—a chance for him to keep on going with a speech that was so clearly forced that you really couldn't have been bothered to listen.

So you pushed past him, outside your bedroom door with only a bag in one shoulder, and had ran straight into Lucifer.

You only shot him a glance, had not let him tell you a single thing before you made your way downstairs, where Simeon and Luke had been waiting by the entrance.

Simeon had shot you a concerned look, and Luke had immediately zeroed-in on the bruises around your neck and the emotions you yourself could not feel, possibly due to shock, were loudly voiced by the kid.

The commotion, had of course, drawn the attention of the people waiting on a side room you had not seen. From there, the rest of the brothers trailed into the foyer with Lord Diavolo and Barbatos in tow. Solomon—whom had brought you back to life—was missing. Apparently, reviving someone took a lot out of him. Finally, Mammon and Lucifer descended down the steps, and you noticed the hopeful look Diavolo had shot him, only for Lucifer's lips to thin out and shake his head no.

Six days was all it took for you to undo Lucifer's work. Six days was all it took for Lord Diavolo to realize that his pet-project would need to be worked on. 

On the seventh day, something shifts, and you realize that pact or no pact, they would have to listen to you. The playing-field becomes even when you let them know that you'll be needing to stay in Purgatory Hall with the angels if they wanted you to remain aboard the project. 

You inhale softly, exhale. Still, you play along with his question, because you know what he really means. "Because I'm willing to move past what happened last night."

Solomon's eyebrows raise, and he plucks a single flower from the bouquet, Twirling the stem between his fingers. "You seem to be taking your death in stride."

"I don't have any other choice, do I?" You say, "I have to stay here for a year, and there's no way I can ignore the others just because of what their fucked up little brother did. Besides, I'm alive, so does it really matter?" Yes, it does. But you're not about to let your walls down, at least not yet.

"It's not a bad trait to have." He admits, "rolling with the unexpected, that is."

You shift your weight to your other leg. "It's all I've got." And really, it is all you have—Solomon might be the other human exchange-student, but he's got magic to back him up, not to mention seventy-two demons at his disposal.

If you can't fight the way he does, you'll just have to settle for what you do have—an unwilling resolve. 

Solomon nods, like your explanation is logical and not the words of a person that's got some loose-screws rattling inside their skull. "You could've stayed in The House of Lamentation though, especially knowing that Lucifer had offered himself."

Offered, he says, like Lucifer had come up with the idea himself and it hadn't been Lord Diavolo, as a last attempt to get you to stay with the demon brothers, that had offered a pact with Lucifer that would guarantee your remaining months in the Devildom as safe as they could be.

It had been a desperate attempt, and Lucifer's indignation had quickly suffocated the air in the room, becoming oppressive. He had seem ready to protest, and he would've, had Diavolo not pointed out that it would be his punishment.

The humiliation of having to bow down to a human, the mere thought had set Lucifer into a sour mood, and you had noticed how Satan—who went ignored, in the grand scheme of things—seemed particularly amused at the situation, and how his green eyes had settled on your form with something like new-found interest in your form. 

You were told what a pact would entail, and while the thought of it seemed like a nice idea. Knowing that the right-hand man of the future king of the Devildom would be under your command...it sounded too good to be true. You were deceived once, you weren't so willing to walk into another trap yourself.

So you tell Solomon exactly that; "I don't trust them." Because you know at some point during the follow week, it will hit you—the realization that you were dead, that Solomon had to bring you back to life. The fact that everyone here is dangerous, even Solomon—who notices your frustration with the uniform and with a snap of his fingers, uses his magic to make it come into place perfectly.

You open your mouth, then close it again. He shoots you an easy going smile.

"Thank you." You say, not really knowing if for what happened yesterday, or the uniform. Solomon nods, and when you're finally ready to head downstairs to join Simeon and Luke in order for the four of you to have breakfast before going to classes, he says;

"You never should." When he speaks, he doesn't sound like Luke does—disgusted at the mere thought of being near demons—but rather, like he's stating the weather. It's sunny today. The moon comes out at night. "They're self-serving creatures."

There's not much differences between humans and demons then, you can't help but think. "Not to be all up in your business, but I heard you formed pacts with seventy-two demons."

"It is exactly because of that, that I'm warning you. Be careful." Solomon's lips quirk upwards, and when he speaks, there's a certain far-away look into his eyes. Like he's reliving a past experience. "The angels... they are obviously biased, and so are the demons. It's not their fault—it's in their nature to be liars, to be honest. We stand as the middle ground, we're easier to influence."

You keep silent, thinking about his words. Solomon continues.

"Easier to tempt, would be the right word." He brings a hand up to his chin, and the movement reminds you of green eyes, "I'm not telling you to not form pacts with any demon, should you feel inclined to. Just make sure to not let them sway you."

And you don't know what he means by that. Sway? Why can't he just give you a clear list of things to look out for?

You don't get to question anything more though, because Luke takes that opportunity to run up to you and hug you—or at least wrap his arms around your waist, the eight-year old barely reaching past your arm-pits. 

Simeon is all calm and soft smiles as he gives the two of you a "good morning", and you let yourself be lulled into the easy atmosphere that the angels seem to carry around them.

The air feels clearer, calmer, like the fresh breeze of the first day of spring. It makes you forget about the events from last night, and if Simeon's eyes linger on your neck with concern, and Luke keeps asking if you're feeling better already, you pretend to not notice.

Breakfast is spent relatively easy-going, and the angels—and Solomon, who would later on become one of your closest friends—prove to be wonderful company. 

You want to lie to yourself and say that it almost feels like the measly six mornings you spent with the demon brothers. But it's different, in a very pleasant way.

For the most part, the general feel of it does—what's with that almost overwhelming feeling of Simeon and Luke seem to exude around you, like they're trying their damn hardest to make you feel safe and loved—reminds you a lot of the slight unease, that feeling of wanting to do something that seemed to hit you when around the brothers.

Temptation, you recall Solomon telling you, once.

Solomon had laughed when you had complained about it, in the following weeks. Told you that it's just what they do. They don't do it on purpose, it just is.

Sure, you might be biased—it's quite difficult to erase humankind's perception of good and evil, light and dark, holy and sinful—towards the angels, hence wanting to room with them. But they haven't murdered you.

Or made you feel scared, or threatened. They make you feel like home. 

You're not completely heartless though, and you make sure to let Lord Diavolo know that despite that situation you'd be more than happy to schedule in weekly meetings with the man himself to discuss your stay and feelings throughout the school year—as a way to show that you're not completely closed-off from the idea of being helpful. 

He had seemed delighted, if slightly peeved at yet another refusal to reconsider your terms of stay. Mentioned something about not giving the brothers a fair chance to shift your bias, and he's right yet—

You had shrugged, said: "Well, that's enough of an incentive, right?"

And for the very first time, something in the way he had looked at you had shifted. Made a cold shiver run down your spine, mouth going dry. 

In the span of the year, he would only look at you like that a second time. Later, you would realize what the look meant.

Sharp smile full of teeth, voice dripping amusement and something pleased, the future king of the Devildom had said: "I still stand by us making the right choice, picking you. I will be delighted to steal your time, if for a few hours a week." 

So, you count your blessings.

ix.

x.

ii.

viii.

v.

"Yes, really." Satan gives you a small smile, amused at your hesitation. Suddenly, there is electricity in the air, something like ash and smoke coating your tongue, bitter in it's taste. And then—Satan's horns framing his hair, tail wrapped around his thigh and down his leg. There's something sharp and dangerous about him, something that his brothers don't have, and he knows it, self-satisfied smirk on his face as he says; "Go ahead, I'm all yours."


	7. road trip — belphegor x reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lets out a long sigh through his nostrils. You can see him counting down numbers. At this point, you’re not sure if he’s doing it because he’s getting frustrated. It has been a complete two years since you two last saw each other, actually. A person can change in that amount of time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M — Kidnapping and period talk lmao. human AU fyi
> 
> technically this was an old jeff the killer x reader fic I wanted to do back when I was writing creepypasta reader-inserts, however a while back I tried to see how to rewrite it because I liked the idea of it.

There's a dirty rag stuffed inside your mouth and tied at the back of your head, serving as a gag. Your hands and feet are tied up as well and you're pretty sure that your left leg is numb. You are also inside a moving vehicle. 

Instead of, say, your bedroom.

At least your captor isn't singing along to that stupid-ass catchy song on the radio.

Regardless, you feel disoriented and thirsty. The rag inside your mouth has done an excellent job of sucking out of the saliva your mouth has produced, therefore leaving your mouth dry as a dessert.

There’s much to say about your self-preservation instincts when you move your head to the side, squinting at the harsh reflection of the sun outside, and realize that not only you’ve woken up in a strange car tied up and with no recollection of last night’s event, but also the fact that the environment outside is not New York City. Unless New York City has become from night to day a dry, empty wasteland. 

But anyways, there’s a fleeting thought of  _ huh, I should be panicking _ when you realize that you aren’t, in fact, doing so.

“

  
  
  
  


Belphegor sits crossed legged on the bed nearest to the door, backpack sitting in between the little space his legs leave open. You notice that he’s doing his best to not look up at you, instead rummaging in the backpack for  _ something _ — despite the fact that you were the one to pack your stuff and there’s nothing of interest in there that belongs to him.

It’s either a pathetic effort to delay the inevitable or he’s simply being a nosy piece of shit. 

Either way, you’re not going to put up with his bullshit. You plop yourself down on the bed without a single ounce of finesse in your body, although the slight cringe that happens afterwards when it creaks loudly is certainly not controlled.

If you weren’t angry right now, you’d think about the fact that if Belphegor were to fuck you in any of the beds, the neighbors might hear the two of you. You can’t tell if it’s discouraging or arousing.

Point is, you’re making it very clear to Belphegor your displeasure, because it takes tone of voice as opposed to being stabbed by someone younger than him for him to understand just how pissed you are.  _ Obviously _ .

“Unless your period sneaked up on you, I see no point in you searching through my bag.” You point out. And sure, that conversation is now a week old but you’re just  _ going _ to keep rubbing it in. 

“ _ Why _ —” that’s suffering, that’s actual suffering in his voice.  _ Good _ . “—do you  _ keep _ bringing up menstruation into our arguments?”

“Because you keep avoiding my questions.” It’s not a mature reply, you can tell by how stupid it sounds once it’s out of your mouth and Belphegor’s face does this thing like he can’t believe he’s stuck with you in the shitty motel room. “Also, I didn’t realize we were  _ arguing _ .”

You level him a gaze that clearly sends across  _ same buddy _ . 

He lets out a long sigh through his nostrils. You can  _ see _ him counting down numbers. At this point, you’re not sure if he’s doing it because he’s getting frustrated. It has been a complete two years since you two last saw each other, actually. A person can change in that amount of time. 

Still, he looks  _ tired _ , which is concerning. Somewhat. You think about cutting him some slack, but then remember just where you are and the fact that you’ve been wearing the same clothes for four days straight.

“[Name],” Belphegor sighs, purple eyes stare straight at you. You ignore the way his gaze seems heavy, tired. It shouldn’t be possible for him to have dark circles under his eyes, but he does. Belphegor is honestly an enigma at this point. “Are you sure it’s the questions?”

You open your mouth to reply, and find yourself with nothing. Shit. The longer you spend quiet, trying to figure out just what the hell you can tell Belphegor, is enough of an answer for him. Weirdly enough, he does not seem pleased with your obvious struggle to come up with something. 

That there, that makes you  _ mad _ . “No. You know what? No, it’s  _ not _ the questions.”

He looks surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting that to be your answer. Or that you’re answering  _ at all _ . “Then?”

_ Unbelievable _ . “Oh, I don’t know,  _ babe _ .” You sneer out the endearment, relishing in the way he flinches. “Maybe it’s the fact that you drugged me and dragged me half across the country because you decided that you needed a hole to stick your dick in.”

  
  
  
  


“Where are you going?” 

“Gonna go get laid.”

  
  
  
  
  


It takes you a second to realize what's missing. "Belphie."

"Hmm?"

"You didn't pack my period panties." The frustrating lilt in your voice makes him look back from the road, over his seat. It's either that or he's extremely confused by what you've said if his face is anything to go by.

"What?" He asks, the incredulity in his voice thick. His eyes fix themselves on the road, it last five seconds before he looks back again. "What the hell?" 

"You only packed the nice ones." As if to make a point you grab a pair of the silk and thong underwear and hold them up, Belphegor's eyes meet yours in the rear-way mirror. "Why?"

If he could blink, you'd imagine he'd be doing so right now. "Cause you look nice in those." He says it as if it's obvious. Which yeah, you gotta give it to him, you do look nice in these. But that's not the point. 

You scowl. What is he thinking? That you'll be strutting around in nothing but your underwear to give him a show? 

You think about telling him off, but then you remember his earlier comment and decide to save it for later. Right now, you're more pissed about the fact that if this little road trip of his ends up being longer than two weeks, he'll have to buy you a new set of clothes and underwear.

"Well, they aren't going to look so nice when they're covered in fucking dead tissue." 

"What even are 'period panties'?" He asks after a minute of silence, and even then, it's almost hesitant. It doesn't escape your notice that he avoided the comment.

You stuff everything back in the bag. "Just what it sounds like. I have like five of those, you couldn't have brought at least one." Even when you say this, you can't help but cringe slightly. Sure, you could've made do with one, but honestly? As careful as you might try to be in not dirtying it, the smell clung to it anyways. That's why you have more than one. 

"Are you talking about the granny panties?" he wrinkles his nose. 

"Yes."

"Didn’t even touch ‘em.” He shrugs. “Why 

Belphegor makes a disgusted noise and you can't help but roll your eyes. How childish.

  
  


"Wear a fucking tampon!"

"I don't like wearing tampons and you fucking know it." 

"Is this a conversation we need to be having right now?" He asks, voice raised. 

"Yes!" You scream, frustration taking hold of your current emotions. "It's going to fucking happen because you fucking kidnapped me and didn't bring my period panties."

"Oh my god," Belphegor groans and with his non-dominant hand runs his hand through his hair, down his face and finally curling itself on the steering wheel. "Oh my god." He repeats.

"It's almost as if you weren't given Sex Ed." 

"[Name]."

"How fucking hard it is to know that people with vaginas tend to fucking bleed out every month."

_ "[Name]."  _

"I'm being kidnapped by an idiot, this is amazing. Great! Fan _ -fucking _ -ta-"

Your face meets the back of the leather seat first, when Belphegor slams on the breaks suddenly. The bag in your hand flies out of your grasp and distantly you hear the sound of it thumping against the front window. Then your body keeps up with the rest of the force and you find yourself painfully stuck to the seat for what seems like minutes but it's in reality but a second.

Your neck fucking hurts.

"Belphie! you fucking-"

He lets out a loud groan of frustration. His arm sneaks around the back of his seat and he turns fully to see you. "Do I have to do it again? Are you not going to shut the fuck up?" 

You glare at him, not losing the daring look while rubbing your neck. "You wouldn't."

Belphegor sneers, icy-cold purple eyes challenging as they meet your own. " _ Try me _ ."


End file.
